


maybe he's born with it (but it's not maybelline)

by gudetama (elementary)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Aurors, Character Study, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Competent Graves, Everyone loves Graves, Gen, Kissing, Platonic Kissing, Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-02-20 08:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementary/pseuds/gudetama
Summary: Fantastic directors and where to find them - an essay by the DMLE of MACUSA





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kallistob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/gifts).



> So, this came out of nowhere as in I had no plans to write this. But super inspired by [these](http://thegaypumpingthroughyourveins.tumblr.com/post/168826703920/imagine-someone-tries-to-pull-a-prank-on-graves-at) [series](http://thegaypumpingthroughyourveins.tumblr.com/post/168826996335/it-only-gets-worse-because-someone-charms-the) [of](http://thegaypumpingthroughyourveins.tumblr.com/post/168827558830/so-now-that-the-aurors-have-seen-graves-walk) [asks](http://thegaypumpingthroughyourveins.tumblr.com/post/168827953215/the-gifts-are-things-like-cologne-a-new-tie-new) and I fell down the rabbit hole so here's another Christmas thingy for you all.
> 
> Merry Christmas!

They don’t like him, not at first. The Senior Aurors, that is.

The new Director of Magical Security is too young, younger than at least a third of the department in a place where the amount of experience one has matters most. He's too proud, arrogant from what they’ve seen during his brief introduction the week before, most likely having received the position through some shady connections as the esteemed Graves’ heir. Someone like Percival Graves who left the country after graduating from school to do who-knows-what before returning suddenly as an American auror without any visible qualifications can never hope to replace former director Farwell, who was the greatest mentor they ever had. It only confirms their suspicions of his untrustworthy character, being named the successor simply because he comes from a line of one of the Original Twelve and has the President’s recognition.

Also, he’s short(!).

Rumors fly after that and cast a non-magical spell of criticism and doubt, painting a negative image of the man before he even shows up to work the first day.

The rest of the aurors have little choice but to agree with what their superiors say—though some do think it’s quite childish—until they lose interest, and can’t help but be nervous for the poor man. So when he shows up first thing on a Monday morning in November, just on the cusp of winter, they are unexpectedly shocked.

A man enters the department at seven o’clock in the morning, looking early-to-mid-thirties in age and dressed handsomely in a charcoal, fitted three-piece suit with white lapels, black tie around his neck. The ensemble is completed by a flowing dark coat and a soft blue scarf for fashion as much as for warmth, and he walks through the room in sleek, well-polished boots that clack against the floor and echo into the wake of hushed silence at his appearance. His clean-shaven face is unsmiling, dark eyes and even darker brows in a frown, sharp straight nose and a surprisingly delicate-looking mouth. His equally dark hair is two-thirds parted to one side, held in place by pomade and it enhances the image of a rich, young master. Everything combines to create an intimidating atmosphere yet female and male aurors alike stare dumbly as he approaches, a captivating gaze meeting theirs intensely as if searching their souls.

“Good morning,” he says as he passes by and nods at each early-riser who is already here, soft and husky and light in a way that tickles the ears pleasantly while commanding attention.

He stops at one desk and that particular auror’s heart nearly stops at encountering him at such a proximity.

“Is this the way to the office?” he asks.

Her ‘yes’ comes out strangled and she clears her throat, nodding vigorously while turning red.

“Thank you,” he replies politely before continuing, unaware of the eyes that bore into his back as he disappears down the corridor.

After another moment of staring silently, they all turn their heads as one towards one another, disbelieving. They then hop over desks and run around partitions to gather in the centre.

“Is that him?” Auror Swanson whispers rather loudly.

“Merlin’s beard,” Auror Morris whistles. “I thought he’d be a sleazy-looking fellow, from what they said.”

“I couldn’t breathe for a moment back there,” adds Junior Auror Goldstein, still blushing.

Another auror laughs and pats her on the back in comfort, but secretly thinks that he might have reacted the same.

When the rest of the department straggle in by eight, Director Graves emerges from the office to introduce himself properly to everyone. They stare just the same, mesmerized by his appearance and mannerisms as his voice rings throughout the room with the help of _sonorus_. He says how he looks forward to working with everyone, to not hesitate to teach him their ways, that he will do his best to be the director they deserve and how he sincerely respects the work of former director Farwell.

The Senior Aurors—O’Brien in particular—look on with disapproval and scoff quietly at the pretty words that are surely lies, only said to make himself seem genuine. They don’t plan on falling for any tricks; rather, they’ll expose him for who he is: a fraud.

They watch him carefully for the rest of the week, responding stiffly if at all to his inquiries and enjoying the subtle signs of frustration in his expressions. He neither says nor does anything, only sighs and nods to himself as if confirming something, moves on to someone else. The Junior Aurors in particular are enamoured with him, listening raptly when he speaks, eager to answer his questions, stand near him whenever opportunity strikes.

As for Director Graves, he learns the system of his new department, takes care to know everyone by name, and listens as they share informative details of both field and deskwork. They think him earnest and genuine, yet also worry about how easygoing he seems and wonder how he will fare on the field. There is doubt as to whether he can lead a team, if he might put them and himself in danger because of it.

Worse, if he might expose them.

Thankfully, the week consists mainly of wrapping up already ongoing cases and paperwork, so it passes without much trouble.

Come next Monday, they encounter a different side of Graves. He greets them with an astounding number of cases ready to be assigned to available persons in order of urgency, requests progress reports and final reports, and orders for a training session every Tuesday and Thursday evening for the next month that he may test their skills, learn their strengths and weaknesses. All while drinking the sludge they call coffee from a tall, ceramic mug and looking like an advertisement doing so.

Some obey without complaint while others grumble, disgruntled by the new commands and unprecedented changes. Some are even unhappier when they hear that Director Graves wants to meet with them because he wishes to have the Senior Aurors become team leaders and be responsible for a group of aurors that they will direct accordingly.

And of course, in order to do so, all eight of them will need to be trained in that capacity.

“How dare—” O’Brien starts only to be stopped by Senior Auror Mathews who replies with a “Yes, sir.”

With one last look—a glare more than anything—at the group, Director Graves tells them to gather in meeting room one at eight tomorrow morning, then leaves.

“What the hell are you thinking, Mathews?” O’Brien near-shouts, whirling around on her.

“Shut your mouth, O’Brien,” Senior Auror Fontaine sighs in annoyance. “Did you want to be suspended for assaulting the new director in his first month here?”

“He was being a cocky little bastard,” O’Brien retorts but already calming.

“Sounds like a certain someone I know,” Mathews drawls. “Although you aren’t that little. You scared he’ll steal your character?”

O’Brien snorts. “Right, as if his pretty head can compare to my dashing good looks.”

“He _is_  quite handsome,” muses Adler. “Is it genes, you think?”

“I think we’re judging him too harshly,” Johansson speaks tentatively. “Like you said, it hasn't even been a month and no telling how proficient he is with his magic.”

“I doubt he would even dare try to make unnecessary movements in those stiff clothes, lest he rip the precious fabric,” O'Brien grumbles. “Probably will just wave his wand around delicately like a conductor.”

“At least a conductor can move vigorously depending on the music,” Lehman snickers, shares a grin with O’Brien.

“Children,” Avery mutters.

At the meeting, they try not to be impressed by Director Graves' vision, his plans for the department moving forward. He presents it in a well-organized and well-articulated way that speaks of his intelligence and experience in such matters, carrying an air of one accustomed to being heard. There is strength in his voice, conviction and confidence that has a few of them genuinely interested and listening, even asking questions. Director Graves answers them seriously and in the following meeting takes suggestions and advice they accidentally find themselves offering.

And what O'Brien assumes of his wand skills is partially true.

The whole department is to be tested and gauged so they are divided up into sections for each training night. They duel against the director in singles, pairs, and groups, and for the most part, he hardly moves from one spot. Not because he can’t, but because he _doesn’t need to_. After the first few single matches, the aurors quickly realize that they underestimated him and his intentions for the training. Badly.

Director Graves gets upset with them for “fooling around” and “not taking this seriously”.

“Is this how you act out on the field?” he finishes, and it’s a quiet, subtle tone of disappointment that is somehow worse than any loud scolding they’ve ever received before.

The soft frown on his face paired with almost sad-looking eyes provoke guilt, even though he’s a stranger to them and who is he to test them?

One auror gets the brilliant idea, then, to not hold back instead and see how the man deals with that. On his turn, he casts spells just shy of causing permanent damage in quick succession, and the barrage creates a smoke screen that fills the training area, preventing anyone from seeing what happened. There is no sound indicative of a body passing out or in pain, and someone disperses the smoke quickly in case their director disintegrated somehow.

But what they find is Percival Graves lowering his hand that is _not his wand hand_ , a barrier dissipating in a sparkle like sand in the wind. His gaze is focused solely on his opponent who feels it like a physical weight, causing the man to tense unconsciously.

“That’s better,” Director Graves nods after a moment, and there’s something almost _pleased_  about the way he says it. “Your movement is a little too wide, so tuck in your elbows and keep light on the balls of your feet to minimize telegraphing your next manoeuver. You have plenty of agility so this improvement will make it a true advantage. Now, try again.”

Several aurors swallow around a tight throat, both anticipate and dread their turn up against this man who has not a single hair out of place or a wrinkle on his perfectly crisp suit as the dust settles around him. Half their group of ten manage to make him pull his wand and it’s smooth and subtle like pouring wine or weaving cloth, flicking and pointing to easily block every attack.

Then they face him in two’s or more and he removes his jacket and rolls back his sleeves. And, well, they aren’t as successful as they’d like to be, though the definition of ‘success’ may vary for certain people.

The next morning, the aurors that have yet to attend their training session with the director ask how it went for the first group, joking and teasing and asking how many times did they knock the man on his behind.

A pause, and then, “You’ll have to see for yourself.”

But the way it’s said sounds more like recalling a fond memory of a pleasant event rather than a grueling chore, which confuses many.

They find out why on Thursday evening, and Mathews informs the rest of the Senior Aurors on the Friday that she was grudgingly impressed by the director’s dueling skills. She had been the first to make him move from his spot and still only managed to slice through one corner of his jacket. And instead of getting angry, Director Graves had calmly stitched the torn area back together and smiled something devastating, then knocked her back a good ten feet with a hex nearly too fast for her to block in time. Yet, she had felt that he was holding back.

“Well, that’s because he’s in a controlled environment,” Lehman huffs, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. “Anyone can do well when it’s predictable like that.”

Mathews shrugs. “See for yourself.”

Group by group, they have their sessions. The news of Director Graves’ prowess with a wand spreads like wildfire amongst them, as well as of his wandless magic abilities. Many of them had never seen anyone capable of such, not even their professors in school having ever performed anything the like.

Senior Auror Adler is the most successful in terms of going up against the director, provoking him to the point that he loses a little control in the excitement of their duel. It results in a hex that he deftly angles away from them, blowing a hole through one of the walls which makes everyone stop and stare in shock as bricks crumble to the ground. When they look back at him, he flushes the slightest bit and the wild drains from his eyes, leaving a sheepish expression with lips pressed together tightly.

“I’ll fix it,” he coughs after a moment. “Please don’t tell the president.”

Suffice to say, that’s the moment this particular group completely falls for him.

So a different news spreads after that, that on rare occasions one might bear witness to a softer side of their director and experience something akin to discovering a hidden treasure.

By mid-January, everyone has had their turn and Director Graves finishes planning a training regime based on their performance. Senior Auror O’Brien is especially discontent about this, not having recovered his damaged pride from being thoroughly kicked in the ass by a pretty boy, and gets the brilliant idea to get back at him with a prank.

Some try to persuade him against it, but others are curious and become invested, and so they collaborate by spelling a layer of ice along the hallway leading to the director’s office early in the morning and cover it with a compounded disillusionment charm so he won’t notice.

Director Graves arrives at seven like clockwork and he greets the room in his usual detached manner. Auror Morris hurries over with a warmed cup of coffee at the ready which the man accepts gratefully, unknowing of the intention that he will spill it on himself as he slips. They try not to stare as he nears the site of the prank, and Junior Auror Goldstein ducks her head lest her anxiousness give it away. She changes her mind, however, and stands to call out to him but is shushed by her superiors.

There is a second right before the first steps lands on the ice in which everyone holds their breath, and they watch as the man pushes off with the other foot and simply glide along the surface, perfectly balanced and much too graceful even with a coffee in hand, as if transitioning from walking to skating in a heartbeat is something he does on a regular basis. He reaches the end and disappears into his office without stumbling once.

“What the fuck,” O’Brien breathes in disbelief, lips unconsciously twitching upwards.

“That was actually fun to watch,” Adler comments, smiling. “Thanks, O’Brien.”

O’Brien forces a frown, grumbles, “Quiet, you.”

They clear the ice and Director Graves mentions nothing about it afterwards, so they assume he either doesn’t care or is generous enough to oversee their insubordination. But then the week after, their training session consists of drills and duels on ice while Director Graves calls them amateurs, smirking, gliding around the makeshift rink with his coat billowing behind him, and they quickly learn a lesson in not biting off more than they can chew.

The last of any remaining recalcitrance disappears when he starts joining them on field missions. Director Graves is always the first to enter a potentially dangerous area, the last to leave at the end of a raid. He readily steps in between the aurors and an offensive spell, returns twofold any harm done to his team but doesn’t torture or kill unnecessarily, stops anyone from doing so as well. He is a sight to behold against real enemies, a compressed force of nature in a man’s body that brings them to their knees with proficient spellwork, agile and relentless.

When asked which house he was a part of at Ilvermony, Director Graves answers a _wampus_ , and they agree that it suits him perfectly.

It doesn’t take much longer to open up to a boss who is strict yet compassionate, dedicated and strong, confident but humble. Also stern most of the time but then can be caught off guard by a sincere compliment as if he genuinely doesn’t understand why they would say such a thing. He drinks too much coffee without eating enough and strikes fear into their hearts with a single glare, is obsessed with the presentation of their reports and hates spiders—accidentally discovered through another prank and then there had been hell to pay as a result.

Ironically, O’Brien becomes his biggest admirer much to the amusement of his fellow aurors, the most vocally appreciative and obvious seeker of his attention, which Director Graves actually indulges.

The crucial moment of realization had been during an especially difficult case involving kidnapped children and sleepless nights, and when they had found the last child, the director had immediately scooped her up into his arms and covered her with his coat, murmuring words of comfort while cradling her close. It had shown how much he cares—the crime, the victims, justice.

“He’s a good man,” O’Brien admits after they’ve been dismissed from the debriefing.

Fontaine snorts. “Took you long enough.”

Indeed, O’Brien thinks, and in a spur of determination, he turns back into the meeting room to apologize for his behaviour all these months—and stops at the door.

“What is it—Merlin’s beard,” Avery gasps from behind him.

Director Graves is just as they left him: sitting at the head of the table with files laid out. Except his eyes are closed in sleep as his head bobs slightly, hanging without support. He snores quietly, oblivious to the audience crowding around the door to get a glimpse.

“Poor thing,” Mathews whispers.

It’s telling that their boss hardly stirs as they lift him onto O’Brien’s back and carry him out towards his office while someone else follows with the case files. They lay him on the sofa with a blanket to keep warm and lock the door behind them as they leave.

“He shouldn’t be pushing himself like that,” Fontaine remarks, frowning.

Lehman shrugs. “Like we could have stopped him. He can probably beat us in his sleep.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to get stronger, won’t we,” Adler says.

“Yeah? Then first one to disarm the director in a duel wins something,” Mathews suggests.

“Be more specific,” O’Brien joins. “I need proper incentive.”

Fontaine hums in thought. “Why don’t we ask the man himself?”

They nearly forget about it, but then their boss drops by to thank them some days later for taking care of him that night, expression shy with a rare blush high on his cheeks. It's all they can do to hold back undignified noises in reaction, telling him that “it's fine, boss.”

When they pose the question, Director Graves only arches a brow.

“What would you even want from me?” he asks. “A pat on the back?”

Too weak, in their opinon.

“Let me know what will give you motivation,” he says, then eyes then sharply. “Within reason.”

It's unexpectedly difficult to decide, even more so when the whole department gets in on this unofficial competition. No one dares to suggest anything that can advantage them over the others in order to endear themselves to the boss. They still train hard as they always have, the freely-given words of encouragement accompanied by an approving hum as good a motivation as any. But the idea of a special reward is too tempting, especially from someone like Director Graves.

What helps them finally decide is when a friend of his comes to visit without prior notice: Theseus Scamander, the War Hero. His entrance is loud and demanding, surprising a few people but also surprising everyone with his mere presence. Director Graves, who had been consulting on a case, looks up with narrowed eyes, seemingly annoyed at the disruption. He looks unimpressed as the boisterous visitor approaches him.

“Theseus,” he sighs in exasperation as if accustomed to this.

“Why the face, mate?” Theseus grins, then opens his arms wide before wrapping them around his friend.

The room falls silent, Goldstein standing awkwardly next to them with her mouth open in shock and file dangling in her hands, looking on nervously.

But then Director Graves moves, leaning in close as his arms return the hug, head fitting easily over the shoulder and pressed against the other man’s neck. One hand even wraps around the back of Theseus’s head in a tender hold like it's something precious, and those who can see are sure that there is not an inch of space between their bodies.

“It's good to see you, friend,” the aurors nearby hear him say.

With an apology to Goldstein and a promise to see to her in a couple hours, he excuses himself and walks his friend to his office, Theseus’s arm around his shoulders and his own hooked around the other’s waist.

“I want a hug,” is what most think after that intimate display.

Thus begins the competition for a hug from the boss. It confuses the director why that is even an incentive at all when Adler asks him as their representative, but he finds it harmless and agrees nonetheless. It's the  first of many more to come in vying for the man's attention.

The first December after the department has been converted to Team Graves, they witness another memorable sight. High on holiday spirit and celebrating a good first year with the new director, the aurors decide to decorate the room with various charms and ornaments as well as indoor snow.

Director Graves comes in later having had a meeting with the other department heads first, and he walks through as usual with 'good morning’s while seemingly unaware of the way each flake sits and gathers perfectly on his dark head and speckles his coat and scarf, the way the white and black and blue create a magical winter painting as the snow falls past and settles on him. It stops as soon as he reaches the corridor. Then a wave of his hand, the stretch of those fingers blows it all away with a single stroke, and the snow sparkle around him as he turns to face the room.

“By the way,” he says, “these are lovely decorations. Allow me to help you next time.” And with that, coat swishing from another turn, he continues on to his office.

“What the fuck,” someone else says this time, voice full of admiration and something a little more than that.

With that image burned into their minds, another competition takes place in time for the following Christmas with who can give the best gift that will be liked most by him. It had occurred to them sometime back that the man could use some colour in his wardrobe; not that the blacks and greys aren't good on him, but he would be just as handsome in a navy button-up or an elaborately patterned tie, a soft-coloured cardigan, a burgundy scarf. They figure the honour of this round would be getting to see the director use their gift and plenty of boasting rights.

Having had no prior knowledge of this plan whatsoever, Director Graves comes to work on the eve of Christmas to a pile of gifts spilling over his desk and onto a good section of the floor. He can't even reach his desk until he stacks everything neatly to the side, then proceeds to stare in awe as his chest tightens with something inexplicable. He opens a couple—a box of premium chocolate and a pocket watch—to confirm that it isn’t a prank of joke gifts or empty wrappings, and with a heart about to burst in joy and gratitude, he steps back out only to find his aurors already outside his doors in the magically expanded hallway, waiting for his reaction.

It's like watching the sun rise when the most beautiful, heartfelt smile spreads across the director’s face, unlike any they’ve seen before in its affection and tenderness. The man blinks wetly, voice a bit hoarse when he thanks them for their thoughtfulness and apologizes that he has nothing in return which they’re quick to reassure him that it’s alright. They receive their own when he gives each of them a hug, rendering moot their first competition that has yet to yield a winner, but everyone feels equally victorious that day so it doesn’t really matter.

O’Brien nearly suffocates him before they manage to extricate the poor man from his grasp.

Over the following months, they get to see Director Graves enjoy each of their gifts whether it's as a coordinated outfit, a drink out of his new mug, or a wonderful scent that enhances his attractiveness and does little to quench everyone's ever-present crush. And through this, they fall just a little more at the way he appreciates them all.

It emboldens them, has them discussing the next competition even while knowing that Director Graves will be a fair judge.

Avery slams her hands down on the table as she stands suddenly, the sound echoing in the cafeteria where this important meeting is taking place. She waits until everyone looks to her, an excited grin slowly appearing on her face.

“How about a mistletoe?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For kallistob who encouraged a second part from me :) The idea of kissing is thanks to her. Enjoy!

Operation Mistletoe fails miserably in that despite the brilliant idea, no one truly has the courage to follow through. Oh, the mistletoe gets charmed above their director’s head just fine, but it’s like trying to taint something pure, touching something that shouldn’t be touched. The moment he had noticed, Director Graves had eyed them with confusion before shrugging, going on about his day and charming the pants off of them even without magic as usual, so to speak.

The dream had been good while it lasted, and things go relatively back to normal.

Director Graves continues to personally train them—from Senior Aurors to the Juniors, team building exercises and individual strengths—and while it’s no longer as distracting as it used to be, they still count it as success if they can at least get him to remove his outer layer and roll up his sleeves.

And then the rumours spread, start reaching curious ears. That the dignified department of law enforcers has been brought to heel by a single person, someone so strong and great that not one of them can lift a finger against him. That he rules with an iron fist and the sweetest of rewards.

Diplomats, politicians, rich folk alike come visit to see and are treated to the unusual sight of mighty aurors acting like puppies in need of attention. The man himself is nothing remarkable, small in stature with a stern disposition, distinct brows. Well-dressed and clean, minds his manners, soft-spoken but charismatic. Perhaps just a little bit charming. But he seems young, an inexperienced sort, inflexible. All they really know of him is the Graves name.

They push a little, try to assert authority over him, maybe see if a little bribery will help them grease some elbows, get into the man’s good graces. But then they find out the puppies are actually guard dogs who anger on behalf of their master to protect him.

Director Graves himself isn’t sure why it provokes them so when an entitled man or woman of a title has something to say about the way he does his job, because it’s normal for someone somewhere to complain about something.

Nonetheless, when the visitor leaves, they keep turning around to watch their back until they are fully out of the room and don’t return for a while, if ever.

 

 

Today, Director Graves wears one of the softer sweaters he received for Christmas, navy blue and tucked neatly in dark, pressed slacks, and it emphasizes those broad shoulders and complements his skin tone. Documents float along behind him with a quill scratching across them as he walks around the department making notes of something; he could be a professor at Ilvermony and the aurors think they would always attend his class.

O'Brien comes up and catches the man with an arm around the shoulders and nearly dwarfs him with his size just because he can, walks alongside him despite the glare he receives. Still, he makes sure that he has something useful to say because the director hates his time being wasted during work hours. He rattles on a report about his latest and Director Graves nods along, pulling out a new set of pen and paper to take even more notes.

He stops at a desk and holds up a hand to quiet O'Brien, spotting a card on top of the cluttered surface.

“It’s Goldstein’s birthday today?” he asks no one, everyone.

“It seems so, sir,” O'Brien dutifully answers.

The director hums thoughtfully in response before turning to his auror. O'Brien swallows at the intense gaze boring into him, yet he can’t look away.

“Do me a favour, O'Brien,” the director says, tone low and smooth in a way that demands attention.

“Y-yes, sir.” He would do anything that is asked of him, he thinks.

“Would you collect the birth dates of everyone here in the department and have it on my desk by tomorrow?” the man asks with a slight smile. “Thank you.”

And the director continues on his way— O’Brien’s arm sliding off him—hands clasped behind his back and documents trailing after him.

It takes collective effort because everyone wants to contribute and they manage to hand it personally to Director Graves at the end of the day.

“What do you plan to do with that, sir, if I may ask?” says Mathews who beat O'Brien at rock-paper-scissors so she could visit the office.

“You will see,” is the only answer she gets, but she is also blessed with sight of their boss's pleased expression. “Good night, Mathews.”

“Good night, sir,” she returns, and leaves.

 

 

It starts with a suspicious bouquet of flowers on Adler's desk one morning when she comes into work. There is no indication of who put it there except for a simple card with the typed words 'Happy Birthday’s. No jinx or curse is upon it, only a charm to preserve the flowers' vitality and colours. It smells wonderful.

“An admirer?” Lehman inquires teasingly.

“Or a stalker,” Adler responds with a straight face and tries not to twitch in laughter at Lehman's concerned face.

“No way,” he scoffs. “Not with all of us around.” Adler only stares pointedly at the bouquet until her companion coughs loudly. “Not anymore,” he corrects.

Still, they've been deemed harmless and she likes them very much and so Adler decides to keep the flowers in a vase on her desk, refreshing them daily with her own charms.

The next week, two other aurors find packages on their desks on their respective birthdays, a tin of gourmet cookies for one and a book for the other. Both have no other message than the 'Happy Birthday' card, printed mechanically. The third time’s a charm, they say, so that’s all the clue they need to figure out Director Graves' unusual request from some time ago relates to these happenings. One bravely drops by his office later in the day to thank him personally for the gift, and is privileged with seeing a bashful expression accompanied by a quiet but sincere “Happy birthday,” from the man.

And so it continues, a package, a bouquet on the desk of whoever's birthday it is.

The gifts they receive are small and inexpensive, but thoughtful in a way that is deeply touching, and so on Director Graves’ birthday, he finds another mountain greeting him at his office that morning.

“I’m only one man,” he protests which falls on deaf ears. “I can't possibly use all these for myself.”

But he’s smart, knows how to share. He charms some of the clothing to be smaller, hangs them on a wall in his office—all put together as complete outfits—like one would a painting. The edible goodies are passed around during meetings which make them significantly more pleasant, especially when the Senior Aurors get to see how their director bites down into a biscuit or cake and lick the crumbs off his lips and fingers before taking a sip of his coffee and sighing in satisfaction.

One day, on Lehman’s birthday, his desk is empty.

It’s just past midnight when Director Graves and a team co-led with the Senior Auror stumble collectively exhausted into the bullpen to lock away the latest crooks from the case. The director tells them how good they did and that they should go home and rest, to forget the reports until morning but instead expects perfection.

“Ah, Lehman,” Director Graves calls as he’s leaving, and several also look back in curiosity. “I haven’t had the time to prepare something. Is there something you’d like for your birthday?”

Lehman will blame his weariness in the future for the lack of inhibition, but in that moment, his brilliant thought is to blurt out, “I’d like a kiss, sir,” with a lopsided grin.

Everyone goes silent, and Director Graves’ eyes widen before narrowing, contemplative. Probably how to execute this idiot, the others think.

“Are you certain?” the man asks to everyone’s shock. “There are better options.”

“I—I—um. Well,” Lehman stutters. “Yes?”

And his breathing stops when the director steps in front of him, reaches up with large hands. His heart is not the only one that starts pounding, but also of those who are watching this unbelievable sight while holding their breaths.

Smooth palms cup his jaw and fingers span across his cheeks, and with the slightest pull Lehman is brought down to meet a soft, dry pair of lips, chaste, his eyes frozen wide. It's over before he even realizes, and the next thing he knows the man has already stepped back and pats the side of his face lightly once.

“Happy birthday,” says Director Graves, and with a nod to his subordinates, he walks past them and disappears down the hall.

Lehman absently touches his lips, completely dumbfounded, and those who witnessed everything turn to him. How unfair and sly he is, they accuse with their eyes, to which the man simply responds with a shrug even as his lips twitch upwards in a smile. _Losers_ , he says with his gaze, and leaves the room, whistling.

The news spreads fast and furious.

“Whose birthday is it next?” Morris demands sometime later.

“Mine,” Mathews sighs.

“Are you going to ask?”

Mathews scowls. “Of course not! Lehman is an idiot for pulling that stunt.”

“Whatever, it was worth it,” says the man in question.

Surprisingly, it’s shy little Goldstein who attempts it next. She blushes and stammers her way through the request a month later the week before her birthday, and even Director Graves raises a brow at her unexpected boldness. He comes into work the day of, sweeping across the floor with long, purposeful strides, and walks up a wide-eyed Goldstein at her desk. Leaning over, the director tilts her chin up at the same time and places a light kiss at the corner of her mouth and murmurs gently, “Happy birthday; now, back to work,” before continuing on.

Goldstein stares after him dumbly for a moment then collapses onto her desk, face about to burst from heat. An auror nearby shakes his head in sympathy and pats her on the back.

A few others dare to ask after that but most are content with the regular gifts. The real problem begins when someone decides to kiss the director instead. In a grateful response to the gift received, Senior Auror Avery—O’Brien’s rival in terms of physical affection towards their boss—walks up to the man and thanks him, brushing her lips against the director’s cheek before hugging him. When she pulls back, she blinks at the tinge of pink high across the man's face, mouth pressed tight.

“You're very welcome,” is what the director manages, then walks away stiffly.

Merlin’s scraggly beard, their boss is _embarrassed_ , the others realize. Even though he gives away his own lips so freely.

“What the fuck,” Mathews hisses in bewilderment.

They promptly start a competition for who can ask Director Graves to dance at the annual ball and kiss the back of his hand as they do so.

Somehow—though she couldn’t have known, or did she?—the President wins that one.


End file.
